


Pretext

by Quilly



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Champagne from a Shoe, Historical, Original Character(s), Other, Pushy French Wingman, Unresolved Romantic Tension, female-presenting Crowley, opera - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 13:28:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20471789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: Aziraphale is surprised to find himself invited to an opera.





	Pretext

**Author's Note:**

> This spawned from having the Prima Donna film sequence from Phantom of the Opera stuck in my head one morning, which led to looking up the origins of drinking champagne from a woman's shoe, which spiraled out of control into this. (There are only so many ways to word "1830s textiles" before you start screaming at Google to reveal what gentlemen's coats were primarily made of.)
> 
> With deepest apologies to people with a more comprehensive understanding of the vague mid-1800s, the corresponding Parisian opera scene, and also to Giacomo Meyerbeer, for being fictionalized so impersonally.

Aziraphale was surprised and delighted to receive an invitation to attend the opening night of a new opera premiering in Paris. Box seats, no less, and the promise of luxurious accommodation. Aziraphale was a little leery of Paris since his very near and foolish brush with discorporation a few decades before, but a Parisian opera was sure to be a treat.

To his surprise, the invitation was sent on behalf of the Vicomte de Busse, a known art patron and certainly not a personal acquaintance of a humble London bookseller. Why would such an invitation come to A.Z. Fell, with “warmest regards”? Despite the allure of the opera[1], a little seed of apprehension wormed into Aziraphale’s mind. This stank of mischief at best.

After an afternoon of dithering, Aziraphale decided to accept the invitation. He was hardly helpless, and his track record with frivolous miracles[2] was very nearly sparkling these days. Aziraphale reasoned that if this was a trap, he was clever enough to get out of it. He was quite in the mood for French champagne, at any rate. And fine patisserie.

Aziraphale arrived in Paris ahead of schedule. He had a light dinner with the Vicomte de Busse in the early evening, to make his formal acquaintance and thank him for his kindness. In the meantime, there was plenty of time for a nibble and a browse around Paris to see how best to freshen up his formalwear. There was a lovely cream velvet top hat tucked away in a hat box in Aziraphale’s luggage[3] just bursting for the opportunity to be shown off.

By the time Aziraphale felt it was appropriate to make his appearance at the de Busse estate, he was feeling quite at home again in Paris, enough so that his conversational French was very nearly passable. The opera was sure to be even more enjoyable now that he was back in practice with the language. He still hadn’t the foggiest about why he was there, but a few discreet inquiries let Aziraphale know that the Vicomte de Busse was harmless, at least in the thoughts of Parisian gossip.

The Paris residence of the de Busse family was a level of opulent that made Aziraphale’s collar itch in horrible flashbacks of guillotine clangs. It was bursting with fragrant rosebushes and artful drapes of lilac[4]. Aziraphale was shown to a sitting room furnished with enough finery to bring Versailles to shame, spindly delicate sofas and velvet cushions and handsome ivory figures carved to resemble the Greek Muses scattered about and nestled among the décor. He sat in mild unease, then stood when a tall, broad man strode into the room, wearing a warm, broad smile. He was dark-haired, salted with silver and dignified, with a strong jaw and nose and bold dark eyes. He had something of a poet in his bearing, intense and passionate, and he held out a hand to shake Aziraphale’s.

“So you are Monsieur Fell!” the Vicomte said in English[5]. His handshake was firm, and the companionable hand that clasped Aziraphale’s elbow was charmingly forward. “I have heard much of you, sir, much indeed! It is an honor to meet you at last!”

“Oh,” Aziraphale blinked, “I—I didn’t realize I was so well-known here in Paris, my apologies for not calling sooner.”

“Not at all, Monsieur, but I’m afraid I’m sworn to secrecy on the source of my knowledge of you,” the Vicomte winked. “Let it ease you to know that we have a mutual acquaintance who speaks very highly of you, and insisted you attend tonight.”

“I see,” Aziraphale replied, suspicion starting to buzz more insistently under his skin. “It is a true honor to be so well-regarded, even in passing. Thank you for your generosity to one who is hardly more than a stranger, Lord de Busse, it is most appreciated.”

“The generosity has only begun, my friend,” the Vicomte said with a smile. “I’ll give you a moment to refresh yourself for the evening, and join you in the dining room for wine and food.” The evening thus planned, the Vicomte de Busse clapped Aziraphale on the shoulder and strode out as quickly as he came. Aziraphale had the distinct impression of being buffeted about by a gregarious hurricane.

But it wasn’t entirely bad, he thought has he carefully brushed his freshened coat and smoothed down his lovely velvet waistcoat. Aziraphale had become quite the recluse lately, running his shop[6]. It was nice to be back amongst polite society, but it would greatly depend on the Vicomte’s skill as a dinner conversant.

As it turned out, Aziraphale's host was a connoisseur of Romantic poetry. Their conversation about Keats alone nearly carried them past time to leave for the opera, and ended with the Vicomte insisting on Aziraphale addressing him simply as Monsieur de Busse, as his friends did. The brief tour of the de Busse library loosened Aziraphale's nerves considerably; no one who loved his beautifully-curated collection as Monsieur de Busse did could be all that bad, surely.

“I confess a small pretense, Monsieur Fell,” Monsieur de Busse said in their carriage ride to the Salle le Peletier, already swarming with patrons. “Our particular friend—of whom I am sure I’ve spoken too much, despite wishes otherwise—did not so much invite you. Your being here is a surprise of my own arrangement.”

“I see,” Aziraphale frowned. “I suppose deception in the spirit of bringing happiness to a friend is permissible. Thank you for telling me. I wouldn’t want to alarm our…particular friend, in thanking them for a scheme they had no part in.”

“Your presence will be joy and light to our friend, I’m certain,” Monsieur de Busse grinned. “A man who knows his Keats is a man worth having around!”

“I would whole-heartedly agree,” Aziraphale smiled.

There was already someone sitting in one of the seats as Aziraphale and Monsieur de Busse entered their box, someone with carefully-arranged curls glinting copper in the low light, lovely sloped shoulders and pale arched neck glowing as she looked into the audience with delicate opera glasses traced in gold filigree snakes. Aziraphale knew the curve of her cheek and the shape of her gloved fingers before she ever turned her head around, dark lenses flashing.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. Crowley’s face went slack.

“Forgive me, Madame Crowley, but I thought a familiar face would sweeten the triumph of the night,” Monsieur de Busse smiled, leading Aziraphale to the seats. He held out his hand for Crowley’s and brushed his lips against her black satin-covered knuckles[7]. Aziraphale waited to extend the same courtesy while trying to banish the dumbstruck look from his face. Crowley had already recovered, her dark-rouged lips curled in a pout.

“You might have warned me, Monsieur,” Crowley huffed, her voice soft and musical as it sometimes was, when gentleness was required. Monsieur de Busse took the seat to Crowley’s left as Aziraphale stepped into the space he left. Crowley thrust her gloved hand in his direction, a hint of a smirk playing on her mouth now. “Mr. Fell. A pleasure, as always.”

“The pleasure is all mine, my dear madame,” Aziraphale replied, and touched his lips to her hand rather more firmly than he intended[8]. The seat to her right was unoccupied, so Aziraphale filled it. “Your good friend Monsieur de Busse was so generous as to bring me here to see this opera, though I confess I know nothing of it.”

“You’re in for a treat, Monsieur Fell,” Monsieur de Busse gushed, leaning towards Aziraphale around Crowley. “I commissioned this opera myself. I’ve complete faith in Signor Meyer’s skill.”

“Did you, indeed?” Aziraphale blinked. “That wouldn’t be Signor Giacomo Meyer, would it?”

“You know of him, then!” Monsieur de Busse smiled. Crowley was facing away from him, so he didn’t see as Crowley looked at Aziraphale over the tops of her glasses and rolled her eyes. Aziraphale had many years of practice in keeping a straight face and demurred to give her a reproving glare. “Yes, it took many nights of convincing, but together I think we worked up a premise for an opera that’s sure to take Paris by storm.” Monsieur de Busse laid a hand on Crowley’s wrist[9]. “Our dear madame here is the inspiration; perhaps you will recognize her tale in the story that will unfold this evening!”

“Perhaps I will,” Aziraphale replied, looking to Crowley, whose face was impassive and blank again.

The opera was a lavish affair, easily one of the grandest productions Aziraphale had seen to date, but such productions were in vogue these days. It seemed to be an allegorical tale of a lovely young woman with beautiful red hair living in Heaven and meeting a handsome young man with golden curls, of a love arranged by angels and then cruelly torn asunder as war broke out, the woman cast out of Heaven and left to a cold existence on Earth without her beloved. Despite himself, Aziraphale was enchanted; the librettist certainly knew what he was doing, as did the composer, and the orchestra was sublime as the soprano playing the lead warbled her aching heart out for the audience, crying for her lost love. Thus closed the first act of the opera at intermission, and Aziraphale came back to himself quite suddenly, his cheeks surprisingly wet.

“Ah,” Monsieur de Busse sighed, and Aziraphale looked over, seeing him wiping a tear from his eye, as well, “a masterpiece, and it’s only half through.” He looked at Aziraphale with a smile, then at Crowley with considerably more tenderness. “Do you require anything, Madame Crowley? A drink, perhaps?”

“I think some light refreshment would do me good,” Crowley said gently. Her face seemed carved from marble. “If you would be so kind, Monsieur? Mr. Fell can keep me company quite well in your absence.”

“Of course,” Monsieur de Busse nodded. “Monsieur Fell? A drink for you, as well?”

“Yes, please,” Aziraphale nodded, “thank you ever so much.”

“It is no trouble, my friend,” Monsieur de Busse smiled, and left the box. The silence that filled his absence was leaden.

“So,” Crowley said, “you’re here.”

“I am,” Aziraphale nodded. “I see France still agrees with you.”

“Once they stopped cutting people’s heads off all the time, yes,” Crowley replied.

“Is the Vicomte a project of yours, then?” Aziraphale asked lightly. Crowley grimaced.

“More of a personal amusement gone awry,” Crowley grumped, smoothing her deepest-red silk skirts. The black lace of the neckline was particularly lovely against her skin, Aziraphale thought, then disregarded it immediately. “The artistic scene needed a bit of a shake-up, and he’s one of the main art patrons of Paris. Or the least-irritating of them, anyway. He started asking too many pointed questions, so I spun him a story of my tragic widowhood by a childhood sweetheart, and next thing I know, he’s commissioning an entire bloody opera about it.” Crowley sunk in her seat, sulking, her golden eyes flashing over the rims of her glasses at Aziraphale. “He thinks this’ll soften me up enough to agree to marry him.”

“I see,” Aziraphale frowned. “Why bring me in, though?”

“Oh, I couldn’t begin to know,” Crowley waved irritably. “Possibly more convincing me of his virtues, possibly sizing you up as potential competition.” Crowley slid her glasses down her nose, eying Aziraphale up and down. “You clean up nicely, by the way, angel.”

“Not nearly as nicely as you, my dear,” Aziraphale smiled, patting her hand. “Do you require a rescue?”

“I’m only wearing a dress for the moment, Aziraphale, I’m not actually a damsel,” Crowley said, though the amused tilt to her head and mouth took any real scorn out of the statement.

“He’s having me stay with him, you know,” Aziraphale said. “Perfectly convenient way to do away with me, if that’s his intent. You must’ve talked about me quite a bit for him to feel bold enough to summon me all the way from London.”

Crowley’s cheeks colored, which was a far prettier effect than it should have been. Aziraphale blamed the opera, stirring up his romantic sensibilities. “Yes, well,” Crowley grumbled. “Had to talk about _something_.”

“I notice the lead’s lover is blond,” Aziraphale said idly, and Crowley’s blush deepened. “Care to comment, my dear?”

“Casting choices are out of my hands, angel, don’t go getting a big head,” Crowley muttered, slinking further into her chair. Monsieur de Busse re-entered the box at that moment, laden with a bottle of wine and three glasses. Crowley straightened immediately, her expression morphing from petulant to serene in a blink.

“Here,” Monsieur de Busse said, settling himself and his burdens and going about pouring drinks. “Any scandalous gossip to report, my friends?”

“I’ve not been in Paris long enough to entertain that sort of conversation, Monsieur,” Aziraphale smiled, accepting his glass of wine. “The opera is truly exceptional, however, I must commend your taste.”

“Great tales deserve to be told by masters,” Monsieur de Busse said, lifting his glass in an amused, unspoken toast. “I think intermission is nearly over, and the second act commences!”

As he spoke, the house lights dimmed, and Aziraphale returned his attention to the stage.

The second act wove the continued misery of the heroine as she struggled through the attempts at wooing her from many sources, staying true in her heart to the lover she left in Heaven. She eventually found herself the object of affection for a handsome prince, who would marry her despite all protest, and Aziraphale found his heart in his throat as the wedding commenced and the heroine seemed to submit to her fate. At the last possible moment, a knight interrupted the ceremony, carrying the bride away and fighting through a crowd of the prince’s men, and when they were away, the knight revealed himself as the heroine’s beloved, and pledged eternal passion for her, and loyalty beyond compare. They married, the ceremony much more humble than the prince’s wedding arrangement had been, and seemed to enjoy a moment of happiness before a devil representing sickness began afflicting the husband. The final duet of the opera had the husband quietly assuring his beloved that he would find her again in Heaven, and her last verse promising to return to him lingered in the opera house’s rafters for a moment that seemed to last forever before the thunderous applause followed the falling of the curtain.

Aziraphale, taken by the emotional climax, surged to his feet and applauded, as well, and when he turned, Crowley’s mouth had a fond little twist he knew very well, never mind that it disappeared as soon as she realized he was looking. Monsieur de Busse was standing, as well, looking the picture of happy pride, and Aziraphale couldn’t find it in him to be upset with him at the moment.

“Monsieur, truly, that was an extraordinary performance,” Aziraphale said. Crowley smoothly rose to her feet, her opera glasses suddenly nowhere to be seen. “And with such a muse, surely it couldn’t be anything else.” Aziraphale found himself pressing Crowley’s hand fondly in his own, lost for a moment in Crowley’s eyes as a fortunate slant of light illuminated behind her glasses[10].

“I am delighted you approve, monsieur,” Monsieur de Busse replied, looking truly pleased; if he was at all bothered by the brief moment of intense attention Aziraphale was paying the object of his supposed affections, he showed no sign of it. “Come, there is a small soirée planned in the hotel next door. It is to be an intimate affair, no need to worry, my friends.”

The soirée was populated by French nobility in attendance of the opera, Signor Meyer, the soprano playing the lead, and various others Aziraphale forgot as soon as he was introduced to them. The soprano, a lovely young woman named Henriette Gregoire, received Aziraphale’s particular praise, which she weathered with the practiced air and graceful smile of a diva. Signor Meyer seemed much less receptive to Aziraphale’s congratulations, but he did spare a small smile for Crowley.

“One can hardly hope for a more inspiring subject as Madame Crowley,” Signor Meyer said softly, and bowed. “If you’ll excuse me, please, I must have urgent words with an acquaintance of mine.” Aziraphale would have been hurt at the speed with which the operettist hustled out of his presence, but, feeling the acute presence of a toothache in the man, he could hardly fault him[11].

“Paris is full of flatterers,” Crowley smiled, and if Aziraphale didn’t know better, he would think Crowley was preening under the attention[12]. “It was quite the spectacle, was it not, Mr. Fell?”

“You know perfectly how well I enjoy a divinely-composed love story, my dear,” Aziraphale chuckled. He couldn’t seem to stop using the endearment more freely than he should in public, but the exquisite little flute of champagne in his hand that refused to run empty seemed to be contributing to the warm, loose affection seeping from him.

“Have you and Madame Crowley known each other very long, Monsieur Fell?” Monsieur de Busse interjected as Crowley opened her mouth to reply. “She speaks of you quite highly, I can only assume your acquaintance must be long.”

“Oh, quite long, indeed,” Aziraphale smiled. “Forever, it feels like, though you well know time has little meaning when enjoying Madame Crowley’s presence.”

“Mr. Fell, please,” Madame Crowley protested with a coy turn of her mouth.

“Did you know Monsieur Crowley before his untimely passing, then?” Monsieur de Busse asked, and Aziraphale took a moment to look at Crowley before answering[13].

“I—”

As fate, perhaps, would have it, there was a loud cheer on the other end of the salon where the soirée was being held, and Aziraphale looked over to see young Madame Gregoire perched on a table, her skirts hiked quite higher than was proper, nearly to her knees, and one of her dainty slippers was missing. The gentleman holding it was filling it with champagne, and to general cheers of a crowd more inebriated than Aziraphale had realized, the gentleman tipped back his head and drank deeply from the ingenue’s shoe. Aziraphale worriedly looked to Madame Gregoire, but she was smiling broadly and in fact offering the other foot out to another young admirer, so Aziraphale had to guess that this was some newfangled, debauched custom he was unaware of.

“Oh, my,” Monsieur de Busse laughed. “How the young people do carry on.” He looked to Aziraphale and Crowley. “Shall we retire, my friends, or have you yet to drink your fill?”

“I think I should like to remain,” Crowley said, a wicked smile on her lips. Aziraphale opened his mouth, but Monsieur de Busse interrupted him.

“Then I think it only proper Monsieur Fell remain with you,” he said, and when Aziraphale met his eye, the vicomte tipped him a wink, to Aziraphale’s enormous surprise. “I shall leave a light on for you, good sir! See that Madame Crowley is safe for the night. We shall all enjoy a late breakfast together tomorrow, talk over what we have seen and felt this evening.” Monsieur de Busse stood, shaking hands with Aziraphale and dipping his head over Crowley’s glove. “Adieu, my friends!”

With that, Monsieur de Busse left the soirée, and Aziraphale was left to recalibrate his entire opinion of the man. Crowley, it seemed, was in the same boat.

“I can’t tell if he’s a maniac, or brilliantly manipulative,” Crowley finally said as the room around them grew louder with more revelry. “I would swear on my honor he was trying to court me this whole time.”

“Leaving his beloved in the care of a man who could be considered a rival is certainly eccentric behavior,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully, and realized his mistake as Crowley grinned at him. He flushed. “Oh, give over, you’re the one who thought he might see me as competition in the first place.”

“Well, whatever the intent, we’re rid of him for the night, anyway,” Crowley said, and began rolling one of her gloves off her arm. Aziraphale turned very slightly pink at the sight of her wrists and sipped his champagne, hoping desperately she hadn’t noticed. “Nice man. Very energetic.”

“Quite passionate,” Aziraphale mused. “I can only assume he would be a doting husband.”

“If that’s what you think, then you marry him,” Crowley said irritably, working on her other glove. “Not that the subject has ever come up, mind, but the way he acts…well, a lady notices these things.”

“I’m sure she does,” Aziraphale said absently. Crowley was worrying at one of her earrings now, lovely garnets so dark they appeared black except in direct light. Aziraphale found keeping his eyes to himself was quite impossible. “Well, unless he broaches the subject directly, I can hardly think you’re in any danger. Will you be in Paris much longer?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Crowley sighed. “I’ve about had my fill of France’s flavor of wickedness. Might go to China, or America. See what’s new there that I can take credit for.” She smirked, and Aziraphale sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Well, London is ever so slightly duller without you, my dear,” Aziraphale said, fighting his answering smile and losing at least a corner of his mouth to it. “But only just.”

“Well, I might drop in,” Crowley shrugged. “Have to keep my greatest and most worthy adversary on his toes, after all.”

“Wily serpent,” Aziraphale said with rather more fondness than usual, and Crowley nudged him with her foot. A comfortable silence descended as they watched the party rage on around them, and Aziraphale sighed. “It was truly a remarkable opera.”

“Not bad,” Crowley sniffed. “Could have used more comedic murder.”

“Oh, honestly,” Aziraphale huffed, but the mirth refused to leave his face or voice. “For a warped perception of whatever story you fed the vicomte, the young lady playing you did admirably.”

“You think so?” Crowley said, her voice suddenly very soft, and Aziraphale’s basest instinct screamed “danger” at him as Crowley leaned into his space, her eyes glittering over her glasses. “Liked it, did you? Delicate, waifish thing like that, awaiting rescue? _Appealed_ to you, did it?”

Aziraphale could feel the thorns threaded through Crowley’s words and sucked in a deep breath. This was a mistake, as he inhaled Crowley’s perfume, which was intoxicating[14]. That, plus the champagne, threatened to topple him entirely, but Aziraphale had not lived for close to six thousand years for nothing.

“I’m not saying that,” Aziraphale said gently. “I mean that her performance was moving, as a character removed from who you actually are. Quite a separate thing.” He leaned in to meet her, as if whispering a secret into her ear. “Nothing compares to the reality of you, Crowley. Nothing ever could.”

He was so close he felt her shiver, but she didn’t retreat, turning further into him, their knees pressing together, her foot finding itself near his own. Aziraphale glanced down to see the toe of her shoe, black silk poking from beneath red, and had a thought[15].

“So,” Aziraphale continued, reaching with his free hand for Crowley’s knee, “rather than lambasting me for opinions you know I do not hold, let’s have a subject change, hmm?” He traced the line of her calf through her voluminous skirts, lifting her leg as he did so, and heard the hitch of her breath as Aziraphale set her leg on his knee and briefly ran his thumb over her stocking-clad ankle.

“Angel,” Crowley said, her voice wobbling as Aziraphale’s fingers trailed down the top of her foot, “what…what are you doing?”

“Indulging in a local custom,” Aziraphale replied, easing Crowley’s shoe from her foot. The shoe was not nearly as petite compared to the young actress on the other side of the room, but the shoe itself was elegant, and Aziraphale never much cared what size Crowley’s feet were, anyway. They were just a part of her. He lifted the black slipper to his chest, then took his champagne flute and poured the contents in[16]. Crowley’s glasses had slipped down her nose, her eyes wide, flush high in her cheeks and dark lips parted as her tongue darted out now and then to moisten them. Aziraphale set the glass aside, then toasted Crowley with the shoe, grinning at her. “To you, my dear, and the beauty you coax from the world at every turn.”

In other circumstances, more rational ones, Aziraphale taking Crowley’s shoe from her foot and proceeding to drink champagne from it would produce much different reactions. Amusement surely would be high up there, Crowley thinking Aziraphale was already too many glasses far gone. Maybe some disgust[17]. However, here, in this setting—overwarm and heady with drink, the joy and love and sin and vice of the humans every bit as powerful to ethereal beings as champagne—Aziraphale finished draining the slipper and was treated to the sight of Crowley’s shining eyes and bobbing throat. She seemed speechless.

Aziraphale slipped the shoe back on Crowley’s foot[18] with just as much care as he’d shown taking it off, fitting her toes in gently and snugly securing it around her heel. He put his hand around her ankle again to lower her foot, and Crowley made a small noise as he unconsciously stroked his thumb across the bone of her ankle. He should probably put her foot back on the ground again. He kept running his fingers over the curves of her ankle instead.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley breathed, her voice cracking.

“Absolutely lovely,” Aziraphale murmured, and gently set her foot back down, brushing the skirt back over the shoe. Somewhere nearby a bell tower struck the hour, and the fragile moment snapped. Aziraphale stood, clearing his throat.

“It’s quite late, my dear, do let me escort you home,” he said, and held his hand out to Crowley. Crowley stared up at him, then sighed, slotting her glasses back into place.

“Oh, alright,” she pouted, and tucked her arm into his as they left the soirée still going strong behind them. They were out of the hotel before Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s arm. “Sure I can’t convince you to come home for a nightcap?”

“I’m…not sure that’s wise,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley’s mouth flattened.

“Right,” she said, and dropped Aziraphale’s arm. “I can make it from here, thanks.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, but Crowley was already walking away. “Will you be there for breakfast, at least?”

“Sure, yeah, whatever,” Crowley threw over her shoulder, waving vaguely. “Ciao, angel.”

Aziraphale watched her disappear into the Paris streets, then sank against a low wall of the hotel’s front garden, placing a hand over his chest and his absolutely racing heart.

Madame Crowley sent her regrets via impersonal card the next morning to Monsieur de Busse as he and Aziraphale waited for her to begin breakfast, and Monsieur de Busse eyed Aziraphale over.

“Everything go well last night, sir?” he said, and Aziraphale smiled brightly.

“Perfectly well, thank you,” he said, and sipped his tea.

“No…new development, then? Pressing news?” Monsieur de Busse hinted.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you could mean,” Aziraphale said mildly. “Madame Crowley is a dear friend, and I do appreciate you arranging for me to be here to see her. I think I shall take my leave from Paris tomorrow, however, my bookshop has been neglected long enough.”

“I see,” Monsieur de Busse mused, and drank his own tea. “Well. No matter. It has been a pleasure hosting you, Monsieur Fell.”

There was a shoe on Aziraphale’s desk when he returned to London and locked the bookshop up behind him. Not just a shoe—a finely-crafted black silk slipper, the sole spongy with champagne. Aziraphale took it and carefully stored it with some of his more delicate treasures over the centuries, and did not look at it again for quite some time.[19]

[1] Most certain to be exceptional, if the Vicomte sponsored it.

[2] How that still rankled!

[3] Already being conveyed to the residence of the Vicomte by a handsomely-dressed valet and several smartly-outfitted servants; truly, the Vicomte de Busse was already a remarkable host and Aziraphale hadn’t even met the man yet.

[4] Never mind that lilac was out of season; in hindsight, that should have been Aziraphale’s first clue that something was possibly amiss.

[5] So much for his refresher in French, Aziraphale mourned, but there would be opportunity for it later, he supposed.

[6] Or, more accurately, running people out of his shop.

[7] A little too lingering for propriety, in Aziraphale’s opinion.

[8] So much for propriety. Propriety was doomed to an early death this evening, it seemed.

[9] Aziraphale checked his immediate and intense desire to ask the vicomte to remove his hands from her. That wouldn’t do, and was an irrational desire, besides. Crowley didn’t seem bothered by it at all.

[10] Crowley, for her part, smiled very slightly at Aziraphale’s sudden and intent gaze, and squeezed his hand back without seemingly much thought behind the action.

[11] A small miracle helped ensure a quick recovery.

[12] Fortunately he did know better, and knew quite well that while Crowley thrived on such attentions, the part of her that was increasingly annoyed with Monsieur de Busse was starting to give her shoulders a rigid set the more the man touched her casually. Aziraphale couldn’t say he much blamed her.

[13] Crowley’s brows furrowed and she gave an imperceptible shake of the head, which Aziraphale would make the best of, but Crowley knew he was a bad liar and both of them knew this was not likely to end well if Aziraphale was allowed to continue to run his mouth, but what else could he do?

[14] Roses and vanilla and a chaser of that distinct musk Aziraphale had lived with for thousands of years, haunting his nasal palate with its indescribable quality that could only be called “Crowley.”

[15] An amusing thought, a thought that the party had spawned and champagne and proximity had nurtured, and Aziraphale, for all his careful angelic ways, could be not careful, when it suited.

[16] The champagne found itself coming to a definitive end at last, the glass relieved to find itself empty.

[17] It was a shoe, after all, fresh off someone’s foot. How unhygienic.

[18] Miracling it dry first, no need to send her home with a sticky shoe.

[19] “Did that nice French nobleman ever ask you to marry him, my dear?” Aziraphale would ask, much, much later.

“No, no,” Crowley waved dismissively. “Daft fool was trying to set us up, if you can believe it. Seemed to think my story of being widowed was code for being rejected and thought you were the childhood sweetheart I could never get over.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully, and Crowley threw a cushion at him, cheeks blazing and grimace barely holding under the smile that threatened it.

“Shut up, angel.”

“Still,” Aziraphale said, “commissioning an entire opera about you, inviting your friend from London along, flirting with you openly in the friend’s presence to make him jealous, and finding several opportunities to leave you alone with the friend—the Vicomte de Busse did not do things by halves, did he?”

“One hell of a wingman,” Crowley said, and winked at Aziraphale’s exasperated eye-roll. “How many of his books did you make off with, in the end?”

“All of his Romantic poetry,” Aziraphale said without a trace of guilt. “Really, my dear, I was quite considering marrying him myself, if you didn’t.”

Crowley’s pout only lasted as long as it took Aziraphale to laugh and kiss it off his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to the Vicomte de Busse, the real MVP and only valid cis man. Stay extra, my friend.
> 
> (quillyfied on tumblr)


End file.
